The rick ov our last zummer's haulen
Now vrom grey's a-feaeded dark,
An' off the barken rail's a-vallen,
Day by day, the rotten bark.—
But short's the time our works do stand,
So feaeir's we put em out ov hand,
Vor time a-passen, wet an' dry,
Do spweil em wi' his changen sky,
The while wi' striven hope, we men,
Though a-ruen time's undoen,
Still do tweil an' tweil ageaen.
In wall-zide sheaedes, by leafy bowers,
Underneath the swayen tree,
O' leaete, as round the bloomen flowers,
Lowly humm'd the giddy bee,
My childern's small left voot did smite
Their tiny speaede, the while the right
Did trample on a deaeisy head,
Bezide the flower's dousty bed,
An' though their work wer idle then,
They a-smilen, an' a-tweilen,
Still did work an' work ageaen.
Now their little limbs be stronger,
Deeper now their vaice do sound;
An' their little veet be longer,
An' do tread on other ground;
An' rust is on the little bleaedes
Ov all the broken-hafted speaedes,
An' flow'rs that wer my hope an' pride
Ha' long agoo a-bloom'd an' died,
But still as I did leaebor then
Vor love ov all them childern small,
Zoo now I'll tweil an' tweil ageaen.
When the smokeless tun's a-growen
Cwold as dew below the stars,
An' when the vier noo mwore's a-glowen
Red between the window bars,
We then do lay our weary heads
In peace upon their nightly beds,
An' gi'e woone sock, wi' heaven breast,
An' then breathe soft the breath o' rest,
Till day do call the sons o' men
Vrom night-sleep's blackness, vull o' sprackness,
Out abroad to tweil ageaen.
Where the vaice o' the winds is mildest,
In the plain, their stroke is keen;
Where their dreatnen vaice is wildest,
In the grove, the grove's our screen.
An' where the worold in their strife
Do dreaten mwost our tweilsome life,
Why there Almighty ceaere mid cast
A better screen ageaen the blast.
Zoo I woon't live in fear o' men,
But, man-neglected, God-directed,
Still wull tweil an' tweil ageaen.